our fingers fly across black and white keys like

sparrows / rhythms of muscle memory echoing

across the table tops // inside, you are wells of blue

deeper than the Mariana Trench / clouded over

with gray brushstrokes where smears of lavender

used to be / and a burning star once glowed / the

distance between us is fraught with fault lines //

where we once found patches of sunlight to curl

up in / we spilled creativity like overturned vases /

your voice gliding through the air, clear and pure

/ mine hidden in stacks of manuscripts / both of

us scattering lilacs across the floor / I would trace

your pen strokes, heart lifting / you would trace

constellations on my skin // the patchwork of your

soul grows frayed and threadbare / puzzle pieces

forced together and weighted with expectation /

stitches rewritten with a violent fist / when braiding

violet flowers into your hair fit so much better —

But the day you take flight with Icarus’ wings /

the day you kiss the sun // I’ll look to the ground /

waiting for lavender to bloom.